Chapter Text
To say that Merlin’s day was going wonderfully would be the most blatant lie in the history of humanity.
He had spent the better part of the night, twisting and turning on his bed unable to sleep properly, as was the case with most nights these days. He guessed it was the accumulated stress.
There were the usual problems of vengeful, resentful or even self-righteous and misguided sorcerers, assassins and magical creatures terrorizing the citizens.
The new-found dread of having Mordred around as an everyday reminder, that he was fated to witness his King’s death at the Druid’s hand.
The ever-present stress of not being discovered, while getting his backside handed to him, when dealing with the threats behind everyone’s backs.
He even avoided Gaius, whenever he could take care of his own injuries well enough. There was no need to worry him.
Merlin could see how his guardian got tired all the more easily, slept more and worried more deeply. He supposed it was to be expected, the man was getting older. If anything, he had been stretching himself too thin for a while now, being the court physician and visiting the lower town every other day to care for the citizens there. Merlin had eventually noticed this and asked Arthur to be relieved of most duties, outside of being manservant to the king, of course, -Merlin refused to give that position up no matter what-, so that he could focus on helping Gaius with his rounds and material preparation.
That was what he had been focused on, cleaning and material prep, before being interrupted by a new guest. It was another Druid boy, with a tragic back-story, stupidly coming to the heart of Camelot, to beg for his help in saving his sister. Against his better judgment, the warlock decided he could afford to spare a few hours. What could possibly go wrong in one morning?
Well, the Gods must have had a good laugh at that thought, seeing as the answer to that question was everything.
This one little, attempted, act of kindness was about to cost him and the whole of Albion, their future.
And Merlin was left to suffer; alone, in the wait of a slow and painful death at the bottom of the ditch Morgana threw him in.
He tried, multiple times, to utter the few healing spells he could manage even when he was in the best condition, to no avail; for hours, slipping in and out of consciousness, and in so much pain. Merlin swore he had never before felt as horrified, or as tired. No! I can’t waste time here! She’s headed back!
Morgana had used Daegal to lure and poison him. He supposed it was karma at this point.
His blood was on fire, yet his skin was blue from the cold, his head pounded with every heartbeat, his body refused to move, like he was buried under rubble and it was all he could do to keep himself breathing. He knew it would be over if he relaxed, if he gave up. He would be lying, if he claimed that thought did not appeal to some tired, twisted part of him. No! I can’t leave him.
Arthur was not dead yet. He would not give up. He tried calling the dragon next and when his magic, his body and his voice failed him, all he could do was to stubbornly cling to life. Like a goddamn ghost.
But then the Druid boy came back. The little liar, helped him. He faded in and out for a bit after that, when the pain had finally subsided enough for him to pass out.
It had been a few hours before he finally woke up. He ran. He had no time to doubt or hesitate, so he moved as fast as his tired body and slashed up leg would allow him. Even with Daegal supporting him when he tired, they were moving too slowly.
Then, because the Gods despised him, they had to run into bandits. Merlin regretted the two minutes he took to warn them to back off. He made a quick example of their leader, scaring the bastards away. They should be thanking him. If he could command his magic as well as usual, he might have killed them where they stood.
After what felt like an eternity, they finally reached the castle. He snuck them in, through the fastest hidden corridors, directly to the throne room. Arthur was supposed to be signing the new peace treaty by then.
Thankfully he noticed that door, that was not supposed to be open, leading upstairs to the gallery overlooking the Great Hall. What he saw, when they finally got up those godforsaken stairs, made his blood run cold.
Sarrum’s warrior had a crossbow aimed right at his King. The assassin spotted them and without wasting a breath, turned and fired at Merlin. He reacted and directed the arrow away from his face at the last second. It felt like his magic was a flame flickering in the wind, with Morgana's poison remaining in his system.
That was why he couldn't deflect the next attack.
The assassin threw two knives, the first aiming for Daegal. He managed to deflect that one, albeit clumsily. The one aimed for himself however…
“Ugh!” The knife was buried in his chest and he was thrown to his back from the force. He would think about that knife later, now he had to save Arthur.
Merlin screamed, and called upon whatever traces were left of his magic. It obeyed, lifting a spear off the ground and running the bastard through.
He was not fast enough. The arrow flew. He could hear the commotion downstairs. No… Please no.
Merlin grabbed onto the railing with a white knuckled grip and pulled himself up.
He was safe. Arthur was safe. The arrow had hit Sarrum.
His King’s gaze lifted and their eyes met. That was the last thing Merlin remembered.